Thursday, March 20, 2014

A Parody Of Annoying Poetry

Twisting up the tallest spires at San Motmorgne,
in Andreabouregeaux, 
on the murky Ellehoubbhe River,
I smoked a dry cigarette
and let my thoughts linger on the crisp evening sky
and the crowded markets at Myschke-et-Sousonvearl,
where the stone-walled halls brim with fine laughing ladies,
who joke, as they always do, about the ambiguous statues in
St. Marie-Chrestentonvilles,
in the southern plains of Lhopsodrosia—
the echoing of the ladies' droll laughter is to me 
like the harmonious singing of the samurai tenor-barbers
at Heiji-chen-komuru.

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